Rain pattered gently on the glass of the 14th floor office window, as Kelechi Okafor stared at his computer screen. The cursor blinked, stubborn and slow, like a heartbeat mocking him. His hands hovered over the keyboard — not because he didn't know what to type, but because he'd already written this email seven times… and each time, it ended differently.
He wasn't losing his mind. Not exactly.
"Mr. Okafor?" his assistant's voice crackled softly through the intercom. "Your 6 p.m. client is waiting."
Kelechi blinked. 6 p.m.? He glanced at the clock. 5:43. It had been 5:43 for the last ten minutes.
He stood slowly, straightened his cuffs — charcoal grey suit, black shirt, no tie — and pressed the intercom. "Reschedule him."
A pause. Then: "Sir… it's your brother."
Kelechi's stomach twisted. "I don't have a brother."
Another pause. Then the line cut.
The elevator descended too slowly. The mirrored walls felt like they were watching him. Kelechi didn't remember pressing the ground floor button, but here he was — moving, mechanically, like someone else was pulling his strings.
He stepped into the lobby of Obsidian Tower, the tallest building in Lagos, and spotted the man instantly.
He looked like Kelechi, only younger. Sharper features. Clean dreadlocks. A quiet intensity in his eyes. He was wearing a faded university hoodie and jeans — wildly out of place in a building like this.
"You're not my brother," Kelechi said without preamble.
"Not by blood," the man said, smiling. "But I am the reason you keep forgetting how your emails end."
Kelechi stared.
"My name's Nnadozie. And I need you to remember something you're not supposed to."
They sat across from each other in a small, out-of-the-way café that Kelechi definitely remembered being shut down two years ago.
But here it was — warm, lit by low hanging bulbs, with jazz playing on vinyl. Kelechi watched Nnadozie stir sugar into his tea like they were catching up after a long time apart.
"You died," Kelechi said. "In a car accident. Five years ago."
"I did," Nnadozie said. "Just not in this timeline."
Kelechi stood. "You're insane."
"I am," Nnadozie admitted. "But so are you — if you're still seeing the thread."
The blood drained from Kelechi's face.
That word — thread — hit him in the chest like a punch.
"You know it," Nnadozie said. "Tell me what it looks like right now."
Kelechi didn't want to answer. But his lips moved anyway.
"It's… floating above your head. A thin line of silver. Flickering."
Nnadozie leaned in. "And you don't see anyone else with one, do you?"
Kelechi shook his head.
"Because I'm the only one not native to this branch," Nnadozie said. "And you — Kelechi Okafor — are the anomaly who was never supposed to notice."
The café dissolved. Literally. The brick walls, the bulbs, the scent of cinnamon and brewed coffee — all peeled away like paper in a flame, revealing something else behind it.
The world turned grey.
They were standing in a vast nothingness, where only outlines of objects existed. People became echoes. Cars were shapes. Light was a suggestion. Everything except Kelechi, Nnadozie… and the thread.
It was no longer silver. It was crimson, twisting around Kelechi's chest like a serpent.
"This is the Frame," Nnadozie said. "A thin layer between realities. Where broken memories go. Where failed timelines are stitched over."
Kelechi looked down at the thread. It pulsed with his heartbeat.
"You weren't supposed to enter this place until Stage 7," Nnadozie said. "You're still in Stage 1. That's… very bad."
"I don't understand," Kelechi said.
"You will." Nnadozie's face grew serious. "Someone rewrote your life. Something old. And now, because you saw the thread, it's going to start correcting you."
Kelechi took a step back. "What the hell is 'it'?"
Nnadozie sighed. "The world you live in? It's not real. It's a cultivated garden — and every so often, it prunes people like you."
The grey began to ripple. Waves of static shimmered in the sky above. The buildings collapsed like holograms trying to load.
"Run," Nnadozie said.
"Where?"
"Anywhere but here."
They sprinted across the Frame as pieces of the world dissolved behind them. Memories exploded like glass — Kelechi saw his first kiss splinter against the road, his university degree crumble into ash, his mother's voice fade like mist.
"What is this?!"
"The rewrite," Nnadozie shouted. "Your mind's trying to unsee the truth — but the thread won't let it."
A voice echoed across the emptiness, low and feminine:
"Subject 7319 has deviated from behavioral expectation. Initiate calibration."
Then the sky cracked open.
A giant eye — no iris, no pupil, just raw data swirling — opened above them.
"Reform initiating…"
Nnadozie grabbed Kelechi and shouted: "Pull the thread!"
"What?!"
"NOW!"
Kelechi reached to his chest and yanked the crimson thread.
The world imploded.
He woke up in his office.
Rain on the glass. 5:43. Cursor blinking.
But there was something on his desk now — a photo that hadn't been there before.
Two boys, laughing. One in a university hoodie. The other in a black shirt. Kelechi recognized both faces.
On the back of the photo, a single line was scribbled:
"Stage 2 begins when you stop pretending you're sane."
He stared at the thread above his monitor — no longer flickering, but glowing steady.